


round the bend

by clovenhooves



Series: exploits [3]
Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Historical References to The Third Reich, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Multi, Nazis, Slurs, and then has yet another existential crisis, but watch out for next time :eyes:, nazi has terrible sex with a random chick he met off tinder, no real porn in this one sorry folks, slowly but surely this fash bastard is coming to terms with his raging homosexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26873275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clovenhooves/pseuds/clovenhooves
Summary: “I don’t fucking get it,” Nazi interjects. He shoots a glare towards Ancap, who still has that same fucking smile on his face, the sight of which causes Nazi to churn with hatred. “He spends all this time bitching and crying about how much he hates Commie, and now he’s...in bed with him again. God, how fucking stupid was I to expect a leftist to have any morals.” He gives Ancap a quick once-over, before adding, “Not like you have any morals either.” He looks up, giving the ceiling an exasperated glare before throwing his hands up in defeat. “Am I the only man with any semblance of character in this house full of extremist weirdos?”---Commie and Ancom get back together. Nazi has some feelings about this that make him reconsider who he's really supposed to be.
Relationships: Ancom/Commie, Nazi/Ancom, leftist unity - Relationship, opposite unity - Relationship
Series: exploits [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947619
Comments: 17
Kudos: 67





	round the bend

Of course, there was a third time. And a fourth and a fifth and...genuinely, at this point, Nazi couldn’t tell you how many times he’d hooked up with the anarchist. Not like he’d  _ ever  _ want to talk about such a thing anyway. This was a private affair, something that was only real under the pitch-dark of night. 

Nazi had a car. He utilized it pretty often, now, especially after the incident with Ancap. At least he understood Ancap was a man who readily sold his silence; he had the right-libertarian’s word held by the respect for the common dollar that he’d never tell a soul about what he saw. While Ancom had plenty of whining to do about how uncomfortable it was to get anything done in the back of a Volkswagen, it did the job.

It became a routine, of sorts. Nazi would start to feel that creeping loneliness, the conflicted mixture of sexual frustration and the simple desire to feel the touch of another mingling until he, inevitably, gave up the fight and sent Ancom a text with nothing but a time and a question mark. If the anarchist replied with something - anything, really, from well-intentioned excuses about late-night protests or commitments with his degenerate buddies to just a straight-up  _ no  _ then Nazi had to suck it up and dig through his modest collection of pornography to satisfy himself for the night. But if Ancom opened the text without another word...well, he could usually count on finding him in the driveway before Nazi even got there, sitting on the concrete with his legs pulled up to his chest, expression unreadable. Expectant, perhaps, or curious. It was an unnerving sort of look that Nazi was quick to wipe away with a messy, forceful kiss, before he pulled him into the passenger’s seat and took them far away from the extremists’ home. 

He was always sure to have them back as soon as possible. Dealing with the others wasn’t as much of a concern; while Commie was an early riser, the man slept like a brick and got up when he wanted to, usually after the sunrise at the very least, and Ancap didn’t care as much about where Nazi and Ancom had been as long as he didn’t have to hear about it. He wanted enough time to make sure they were...presentable. Making sure his hair was combed and undisturbed, that he remembered to button his shirt all the way up to the top, hiding any unsightly marks that may have been left behind. And, likewise, making sure the anarchist didn’t look more  _ disheveled  _ than usual - that his hoodie covered up the bruises left by Nazi’s iron grip, and whatever makeup he might’ve put on wasn’t still running and smeared. It was a quiet sort of preening. Maybe it was something to do with the state of post-coital relaxation that the two were left in after their escapades, or maybe the sleep deprivation, but there were none of the witty comebacks or whip-quick insults thrown in either direction. Nazi would turn on the overhead light and drop down the visor, looking at himself in the mirror. Maybe a few words would be exchanged: 

_ “There’s lipstick on your cheek.”  _

_ “Thanks. Uh...I think I left some bruises on your wrists, make sure no one sees that.”  _

_ “Noted.”  _

But other than that, it was quick and quiet and over with, the bubble of strangely intimate silence broken as soon as they went back into the house. Ancom entered through the front door, free as can be, and if anyone asked, he could always bullshit an excuse - protesting, partying, maybe too “drunk” or “high” to remember. Nazi always crept in through the back door, closing it gently behind him so he could crawl into his bed and let himself fall into a deep sleep before the guilt and shame could start eating away at his psyche. Ancom was usually content to pass out on the couch, maybe raiding the fridge for a snack, usually falling asleep covered in wrappers. 

It was predictable. Something to...rely on, almost. A simple text and he could have Ancom outside. Waiting for him. 

It felt...good. Not only in the sense of having that sort of power over someone - the interesting thing about Ancom, to Nazi, wasn’t his submissive nature or his  _ carnal knowledge. _ It was his attitude - he never took shit from Nazi without a fight, and that, he had to admit, was something he could respect. Nazi was coming to realize that Ancom  _ did  _ have morals, or at least his own set of them. Some code of dignity and honor that was completely alien to the fascist, but at the very least consistent. 

That wasn’t the only thing Nazi had begun to notice about Ancom. 

He began to notice...other things. Bad things. 

How Ancom looked when he had obviously woken himself up in the middle of the night to meet Nazi. Hair even more fucked up than usual under his green hoodie, eyes heavy and dark with exhaustion. How his eyes caught the light of the stars when he looked up at Nazi as he came out of the garage, car keys in hand. 

Ancom liked to sing, but only when he thought no one was listening - or at least, no one in the house. This was something Nazi realized on accident; laying in bed, heart pounding, unable to sleep, mind racing with the thought of what he had done, what  _ they  _ had done, what Ancom had done to him, when the raspy, out of tune sounds came drifting in through the door. It had to have been four, maybe five in the morning. Nazi, pressing his ear to the door, could hear the sounds of Ancom making himself a bowl of cereal, coupled with an amateur backtrack of shaky vocals in some foreign language. Russian, maybe, or Ukranian. Something  _ Slavic _ , he figured, eyes narrowed, face twisted up in disgust. And yet, he couldn’t drag himself back into bed until he couldn’t hear the singing anymore. 

The way Ancom looked at him from across the room over tension-filled dinners - Commie’s doing, usually, the red bastard saying how it was  _ for the good of the household  _ to make and have dinner together (which usually devolved into stupid arguments over whether or not you should peel potatoes before you mash them or why it should be considered a violation of the NAP to put pineapple on pizza.) The left-libertarian was quieter these days. Sure, he was still just as ready to start a screaming match over petty ideological disagreements with Commie or bitching about the authoritarianism of Ancap forcing him to pay rent, but he kept to himself more, lately, especially whenever they were all in the same room like this. He’d just...stare at Nazi from across the table as Commie and Ancap bickered about economics, Nazi usually staring down at his meal only to provide a comment or two. It was easier to dissect the undercooked pierogi with a fork than to try to decipher that intense, unreadable look (or why it made the blood rush to his cheeks every time he tried to do so.) 

He had dreams, sometimes. Usually if it had been a while since the last time he’d been with Ancom. 

On a night like this, especially. It had been probably the longest span of time since this had first started between their little... _ sessions _ . Nazi curls up in bed, in a restless and frustrated sleep. In his mind’s eye he sees himself in the mirror - it is 1943 again, and he is in his Berlin flat. He wears his full uniform, everything shining in the then-new glory of the day - polished belt buckle, the sleek black abyss of his overcoat unmarred by even a hint of dirt. The bare-toothed grimace of the  _ totenkopf  _ shines in the light of the dawning sun through his windows. These were the great days - the  _ last  _ of the great days, he’d realize all too late. This great city would be under attack in a matter of months. The Führer’s death would come not too long after. He’d be on the run before he knew it - a neutered and reviled ideology battered to near nothingness. 

This was the strongest he ever was. His dream-self assesses his body in the mirror; shining white teeth, skin completely clear of blemishes, eyes a cool blue, hair a straw blond. A perfect specimen. 

He turns in the mirror. He misses these days - days where he could walk unimpeded in the street without fear, when he didn’t have to hide behind meandering terms like  _ race realist.  _ He was National-Socialism, and his people adored him. Except- 

Except… 

Suddenly he sees it. It just appeared out of nowhere - there was no way he didn’t see it at first, someone must have  _ put  _ it there. 

The sight of the pink triangle sewn into his otherwise pristine uniform makes his stomach drop. With a shaking hand, he covers it, large hands almost obscuring the wretched symbol entirely. Almost. 

A cold, terrible sweat builds under his uniform. Himmler’s words echo through his head: 

_ “Our nation will be destroyed by this plague. This initiates the destruction of the state.”  _

His hand lowers from the triangle, and suddenly a great anger overtakes him. He wasn’t a homosexual. He simply  _ wasn’t _ . He was the entire lifeblood of this nation’s people and dreams given a human body - there was no way that this body was somehow  _ defective _ , mentally, that somehow in his very creation he was corrupted with such a despicable trait. 

He looks down at his hands; those hands have pulled triggers, held weapons. They have killed. Killed men - like him? Of course not. Killed degenerates. Those who muddied the gene pool. Those who gave the Aryan a bad name. 

He knew what a homosexual looked like. Didn’t he? People like Ancom. Soft. Weak.  _ Queer _ . So-called “men” who painted their nails and spoke in high, girlish voices. He could identify one from across the room without even speaking to him. A man who lacks will. A man who lacks honor. 

There is a gun in his hands. His trusty P38, silver barrel shining at him in an obscene sort of beckon. His hand curls around the wooden grip. He knew who he was. He knew what he was here for. The corrupting influences of this household were getting to him. 

He’s shaking as he lifts the gun to his temple. Looks at himself in the mirror, eyes brimming with tears - oh, what a damned disgrace. The pink burns so bright it stings his vision as he stiffens a finger on the trigger- 

_ Bang.  _

Nazi springs up in his bed, heart pounding, the crack of the gunshot echoing through his mind. His chest heaves with each shuddering breath as a hand runs through his hair, sticky with sweat. 

That anger begins to overtake him again as his shaken-up brain remembers the ultimate cause of all this - this vapid navel-gazing, this inane crisis he was in the midst of. He was a proud man, a strong man, a  _ straight  _ man, he knew who he was, damn it - until that bastard  _ bewitched  _ him, crawled into his lonely heart and began eating into his soul like a leech. 

He throws the blanket off himself and watches it crumple to the floor, the harsh red staring up at him even in the darkness of his bedroom. One hand reaches for the top of his bedside drawer to find his gun, while the other reaches for the pair of pants he’d shamefully  _ thrown  _ onto the floor (he used to make sure his clothes were properly folded and put away every single night. God, he really was decaying.) He really was going to beat the shit out of Ancom this time - no more games, no more sick acts of sexual deviancy. He couldn’t load the gun, of course, but he could still beat him upside the head with it. His eyes glance for a moment at the glowing symbols of his alarm clock - it was a few minutes past midnight, so maybe the others might still be awake, but fuck it. This had gone on for far too long. He’d fight Commie too, if he had to. The freakishly tall  _ untermensch  _ might have the advantage, but maybe he could toss Ancap a few Bitcoins and enlist his help, too. An all-out war was just what this household needed to set things right. They’d spent  _ far  _ too much time pretending one another were  _ equals  _ in some way, even  _ friends _ . 

So when Nazi bursts out of his room wearing only a t-shirt and wrinkled slacks (all the while brandishing a pistol) only to see a puzzled-looking Ancap looking up from his phone from the couch, he suddenly feels rather silly. 

“You having a night-terror or something?” Ancap asks, quirking up an eyebrow. 

“Where’s Ancom?” Nazi huffs, trying not to feel too embarrassed by the libertarian’s tone. Ancap always sounded like he was twelve steps ahead of you - under the dark glare of his sunglasses Nazi felt as though Ancap somehow already knew all of his thoughts, already knew every intention he had ever even  _ considered _ . 

“In Commie’s room, I think. But-” 

That’s all Nazi needs to hear, quickly stomping off in the direction of the little red door down the hall and trying to open it. Keyword  _ trying  _ \- it was locked, which was unusual. Commie usually left his door unlocked, justifying it with something about  _ communal respect and trust for one another.  _ But the handle didn’t budge. He tried it again; still nothing. 

He was just about to try shooting open the lock when he heard the...noises. 

_ “Ah- Tankie I- oh, fuck.”  _

_ “Sit still. I did not give you permission to touch yourself.”  _

A moan, tapering off into a high, keening whine. Nazi knew those sounds. Nazi had  _ caused _ those sounds. 

A bright, embarrassed blush rushes to his face before he steps back, back, back - too far, head hitting the opposite wall of the hallway before he turns around, disoriented, and stumbles back into the living room. 

Ancap’s smug grin almost makes him want to redirect his original plans towards him instead, but he relents, flipping his gun’s safety on before shoving it haphazardly into his pocket. 

“Hey Nazi,” Ancap sneers, “is that a gun in your pants or are you just happy to see-” 

“Shut the fuck up, degenerate.” He opens his mouth again, perhaps in an attempt to come up with something more clever, but gives up, stomping over to the couch and slumping next to the libertarian instead. He runs his hands through his hair, distressed. 

Ancap sits up, chuckling. “Seems like the statist finally made up with his dear anarkiddie. It’s truly sweet. I’ve been trying to sell the two of them matching leftist unity buttons, y’know, they really came out well. I had them printed the other day, you should-” 

“I don’t fucking get it,” Nazi interjects. He shoots a glare towards Ancap, who still has that same  _ fucking smile  _ on his face, the sight of which causes Nazi to churn with hatred. “He spends all this time bitching and crying about how much he hates Commie, and now he’s... _ in bed  _ with him again. God, how fucking stupid was I to expect a  _ leftist  _ to have any morals.” He gives Ancap a quick once-over, before adding, “Not like you have any morals either.” He looks up, giving the ceiling an exasperated glare before throwing his hands up in defeat. “Am I the only man with any semblance of character in this house full of extremist weirdos?” 

“Nazi, need I remind you I walked in on you and the ‘degenerate’ engaging in some  _ not so traditional  _ behaviors?” Ancap leans back into the couch’s armrest, already losing interest in the conversation. “Though I understand your frustration. Ancom’s a great lay, I’d be mad too if qui was my only option.” 

“God, why are you buying into  _ his  _ stupid cultural Marxist bullshi-  _ wait, you had sex with him too?”  _

Ancap, already typing away on his phone, gives only a lackluster nod in response. “Sure did. Few times. Whenever qui doesn’t have the money for drugs, it’s usually the form of exchange qui goes with.” 

“That’s disgusting!” God, you couldn’t even trust the  _ rightists _ in this house. “You’re a fag too?” 

“Your blatant homophobia as a pitiful shield for your own desires is draining, Nazi. Don’t you know how many potential followers you’re driving away with such advertiser-unfriendly language?”

“You didn’t answer the question.” 

“I’m whatever you want me to be, for the right price.” Ancap lowered his sunglasses for effect, dollar signs shining a sickening yellow within his pupils. 

“Is there  _ anyone  _ in this house who isn’t a fucking queer?!” 

Ancap shrugs. “Honestly, I’d venture to say  _ most _ ideologies aren’t straight. I mean, hello, most of us are men. Who are we going to fuck?  _ Civilians?  _ Like any normie on the street could afford  _ this _ .” He gestures towards himself with one hand, eyes still glued to his device. 

“That...that can’t be true.” Nazi runs a hand down his face. “What about Christian Conservative?” 

“I’ve seen him and Homofash at the bar before. Wouldn’t surprise me, really. He’s not nearly as repressed as you are. The modern-day conservative movement is actually a lot more accepting of-” 

“Oh, Evola...Ecofash?” 

“Yeah, turns out, part of the reason he’s so worried about climate migrants is that he’s afraid they wouldn’t approve of his flaming homosexuality.” 

“Anfash?” 

“He literally lives in a gay polycule with all the other anarchists.” 

“...li’l Nazbol?” 

“Nazi.” Ancap lowers his phone in clear annoyance, turning to face the fascist. “Everyone is gay. It’s current year, and it’s more profitable than ever. Think about it - why market to  _ one  _ standard demographic of men and women and their marriages when I can market to them  _ all _ ? Every new gender created is another pride flag I can sell. I say this is a great thing. I mean, really, think about it - what’s manlier than a man fucking another man?” 

Nazi stands up at this, too fast - his gun falls to the floor with a pathetic thud, and quickly he bends to retrieve it, trying to drown out Ancap’s laughter from behind. “No. No. I refuse to participate in this...this societal  _ rot _ . Unlike you, I’m not a faggot who’s willing to drop everything I stand for just because the  _ rest  _ of the world has bowed down and accepted the neoliberal status quo.” He starts back to his own bedroom, shoulders hunched. “I have stooped to your lows before, but never again. If someone has to set the example for who a  _ real  _ man is supposed to be, then I’m happy to do so. No wonder we haven’t accomplished anything...with three-fourths of our team being made up of fags and sissies, it’s a miracle the centrists haven’t nuked us off the face of the earth yet.” He stands in the doorway to his bedroom, giving Ancap one final glance over his shoulder before shutting the door. “Stop buying into their lies, Ancap. Know who you really are.” 

He was going to fix this, one way or another.    
_ (That night, he takes the green panties out of their coveted place, hidden under a pile of socks in his dresser-drawer. Nazi comes shamefully into his hands, eyes shut, thinking about the noises he heard from behind that door.)  _

Commie and Ancom were together again, and everything was terrible now. While before Nazi could at the very least do his best to repress his latent thoughts, having to be subjected to the leftists openly engaging in their wanton behavior just made him sick. Everytime he walked into a room to find Ancom snuggling into Commie’s lap, or worse, the two  _ making out  _ while the rest of them were trying to go about their daily lives, it made him want to just lock himself in his room and sulk. 

For some reason, Ancap seemed to find this hilarious. He points out the way Nazi gnashes his teeth together when he sees Commie walk up to Ancom from behind, grabbing him by the waist and planting a little kiss on the top of his head. Laughs in that horrible mocking tone when Nazi balls his hands up into fists at Commie’s deep, booming voice melting into sickeningly saccharine softness at the word  _ anarkiddie.  _

“You’re jealous of him,” he says, walking by Nazi one morning on the way to set up the coffee machine. 

“There’s nothing to be jealous about,” the fascist snaps back, sitting at the kitchen island. The circles under his eyes are dark; it’s clear to the anarchist that he hasn’t been sleeping much. A tall silver thermos sits next to him, already half-empty.

“You look like hell.” Ancap sets down his coffee mug under the machine, glancing back at Nazi as he reaches into the cabinet to pull out a paper filter. “Ancom is polyamorous, you know. I’m sure qui would still make time for you if you just asked.” 

Nazi visibly twitches, slamming his thermos on the table. “Somehow knowing that the queer engages in that sort of  _ perversion  _ doesn’t even surprise me.” He hiccups, wiping at his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. 

“...That’s not coffee in there, is it.” Ancap says flatly, pouring the grounds into the machine. “You know, you should really try stimulants sometime. You can get much more done.” 

“Tried that,” Nazi slurs. “Back in ‘45. How else do you think we were able to keep our men going for weeks on end? Pervitin is  _ so  _ much cheaper than rations.” 

“You’ll have to accept yourself sooner or later, Nazi. Ancom is what, a half a century older than you? Qui is a lot smarter than you give quem credit for.” 

“Yeah, smart enough to  _ seduce  _ me into-” 

“Not what I meant. Jesus, Nazi, this is really fucking you up.” 

“Ancom is barely even a man anyway. Doesn’t he even  _ say  _ he’s not a man? If that’s what he wants, sure, go ahead, he’s not a man. According to your logic, I haven’t had sex with a man. So I  _ can’t _ be gay!” There is a sort of drunken revelation in Nazi’s voice, and Ancap shakes his head, watching the coffee pour into his mug. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night. I mean, you could always have sex with a different man if you want to ‘test’ your gayness.” Ancap smiles, picking up his mug and walking over to the seat opposite Nazi. “I’m happy to offer up my own services - in fact, I’ll even give you a ‘questioning discount’! Very generous offer here, only $75 for a-” 

“I am  _ not  _ having sex with you!” Nazi pipes up. “Though there  _ is  _ something to be said there. Maybe I just need to have  _ real  _ sex with a  _ woman  _ to purge myself of these thoughts.” 

“I feel like Anarcha-Feminist wouldn’t like you too much.” 

“Not an ideology, you fucking Jew. A human woman.” 

Ancap raises an eyebrow, sunglasses fogging up from the heat of his beverage as he sips from his mug. “And where do you intend on finding someone? Because I get the feeling you’d reject another one of my  _ generous discounts  _ for my favorite escort service in Ancapistan.” 

“I’ve got an idea.” 

That very night, he downloads a dating app - some trashy thing dragged out from the sewers of the App Store, something clearly meant for hooking up rather than genuine conversation. That could be dealt with later. He just needed to get these...urges out of his system. 

He snaps a few flattering photos and picks an alias to go under - after all, what would his followers think if they saw their proud ideology stooping to such lows? And, sure enough, he gets some messages within the evening. 

He picks the first woman who shows marginal interest in him. He doesn’t even remember her name. All that’s relevant are her good looks - from her pictures, she seemed to be fit enough, maybe not  _ purely  _ Aryan in heritage (he couldn’t expect to get her into bed by demanding her skull measurements, after all), but close enough. Especially considering the only other person he’d...engaged with. 

Obviously, he can’t bring her home. So he goes to her place - maybe a bit emasculating, but again, those were concerns to deal with later. He needed this. 

The next day, he parks his car outside the dingy apartment. Finds the door she’d specified, knocks. Engages in some casual conversation in the doorway when the woman answers - he’s a bit taken aback, somehow she’s even more stunning in person. Before he can really register, she’s grabbing him by the waist, pulling him into the room, shutting the door behind him. 

The room is dark and dingy. The bed is undone. He’s pulled on top of her, mind going blank, limbs settling into wherever she places them. She pulls off his shirt. Her nails are painted a lime green and - fuck, no, he refuses to think about  _ him  _ right now. He does his best to focus. At the very least he’s gained a little bit of experience from Ancom, knowing where to put his hands, how to dive into a deep, sloppy kiss. 

She brings one of his hands to her breast and he’s not quite sure what to do. Just feeling it makes him uncomfortable in a way he can’t quite parse. She seems frustrated by this, starts to fumble with his jeans. He’d worn a casual outfit here, something that wouldn’t identify him. 

Eventually she takes his pants off, clearly unamused with the way his body freezes up. She pulls off her own top, asks him to unbutton her bra, and it takes almost five entire minutes for him to figure it out. He’s  _ just  _ about to start feeling some actual arousal when she takes a condom from her bedside drawer and tells him to put it on. She ends up having to do it for him. 

He slips into her and it’s awful and messy and wrong wrong wrong. Her noises aggravate him; the way her long nails dig into his shoulders make his stomach flip in a bad way. His movements are stilted, robotic, body functioning on pure autopilot. His gaze fixates on a crumpled-up wrapper on the floor by the edge of the bed instead of the stranger underneath him. He scrunches his eyes shut, trying to force something,  _ anything _ other than the sheer  _ apathy  _ and borderline disgust that was overtaking his body. And as he tries to feel any semblance of attraction to this woman, his mind wanders. 

He comes with a sad, scared whimper, mind filled with only the memories of when it was the leftist underneath him instead of this woman. She throws him off of her and tells him to get out. He compiles. They don’t share another word as he leaves the room, descends the stairs with quick, shameful footsteps, and climbs into his car. 

He deletes the app from his phone before he pulls back onto the road, whole body shuddering with the leftover threads of disgust. Somehow, he feels dirtier than ever before. 

**Me: What did you do to me.**

**sniveling degenerate: wtf?**

**Me: You did something to me. You fucked up my head. I’m broken now.**

**sniveling degenerate: literally what are you talking about  
** **sniveling degenerate: crazy fucking fascist**

**Me: You know exactly what I’m talking about. You DID something to me and now I’m  
** **Me: I’m somehow becoming one of YOU.**

**sniveling degenerate: youre so dramatic  
** **sniveling degenerate: jesus  
** **sniveling degenerate: is this your weird way of doing foreplay or?**

**Me: No. Rest assured that you will NEVER see me engage in that kind of moral degradation again.  
** **Me: I’m trying to undo the damage you’ve done.  
** **Me: But I want to know how you did it. And did it so quickly and thoroughly.  
** **Me: For a moment there I really considered I may be a homosexual.**

**sniveling degenerate: youre actually insane omg  
** **sniveling degenerate: wait is this about me and tankie?  
** **sniveling degenerate: im polyam yknow so we can definitely still do shit if youre up for it  
** **sniveling degenerate: tankies cool with it  
** **sniveling degenerate: i mean he isnt cool with it but fuck him >:3 **

**Me: No! Jesus, what is it with you anarchists and not even having the moral decency to commit to ONE person? I at least have more respect for the homosexuals who simply wanted to marry their ONE sodomite life-partner.  
** **Me: Before simply wanting equal rights degenerated into men on leashes in the street and Drag Queen Story Hour.**

**sniveling degenerate: ancap sells pride flags for the gays who hate themselves now yknow** **  
** **sniveling degenerate: you should invest in one** **  
** **sniveling degenerate: maybe youll feel better  
** **sniveling degenerate: also men on leashes are hot i dont see the problem  
** **sniveling degenerate: wanna see me on a leash**

Nazi runs a hand through his hair, exasperated. He glares down at his phone. It seems as though no matter what he threw at the leftist, he always found a way to dodge the question. No matter; he’d learn the devious ways of the homosexual sooner or later, and better learn how to avoid them going forward. The centricide wouldn’t last forever, after all. The second he moved out of this damned house he was going to hunt down Ancom and get rid of him for good, followers be damned. He wasn’t afraid of some limp-wristed fairies coming after him, and surely his fanbase would gain a newfound respect for him anyway. They’d back him up. 

Ancom comes through his door and he jumps, dropping his phone. 

There stands the leftist - certainly dressed in much more modest attire than when this first happened, just his normal hoodie and a pair of jeans - in the doorway, expression...tense, but otherwise hard to discern. 

“I think we need to talk.” 

He shuts the door behind him and begins to approach the fascist, who sits on his bed and quickly scrambles back towards the headboard. “Stay away from me,” Nazi huffs, the words tumbling around and blending together. He coughs, trying to sound less outwardly afraid, and tries again. “I mean it this time.” 

“And  _ I  _ mean it this time.” Ancom plops down on the bed, his lighter weight not shifting it much. He turns towards Nazi, pursing his lips. “Watching you squirm around about this was funny at first, but now it’s just sad. You need to be honest about whatever the hell’s going on with you.” 

Nazi shakes his head hard, as though he could somehow will the anarchist out of his room through sheer force. “No. We aren’t  _ discussing  _ anything, there is no  _ discussion  _ to be had. You get the fuck out of my room before I get my gun.” 

“You’ve threatened me like, a million times, Nazi. And you’ve never followed through. And I think it’s because…” Ancom takes in a deep breath, seeming to anticipate the rightist’s reaction. “I think it’s because you like me. You have a crush on me and that scares you. You’ve been pissy lately because me and Tankie are on good terms again, but I meant what I said. I mean, I’m open. If you want to still do stuff, I’m good with that. And if you wanted to go further than that…” Ancom’s hand starts to drift towards Nazi’s on the bed, the fascist’s eyes wide and terrified like a cornered animal. 

Quickly, Nazi brings his hand away, accidentally slamming it into the wall as he does. He winces, quickly shoving the appendage under his thigh. “Absolutely fucking not. I want nothing to do with you and the communist. I’m certainly not going to enter into some kind of depraved ménage à trois with you!” 

“I mean, there’s lots of ways you can arrange a polycule. Could just be you and me and me and Tankie, you don’t have to-” 

“I’m not gay, Ancom.” 

Ancom stares at him for a long fucking time, and god, how can those doelike eyes somehow look so damn  _ threatening  _ like this? Nazi hates feeling vulnerable, so he straightens his back, puffing out his chest a little, trying to reclaim some of the space. This was  _ his  _ room. He wasn’t going to let some queer scare him, make him shrink back and forget himself again. 

“...but you are,” he murmurs, finally. 

Nazi shakes his head. 

They’re quiet for a while. Eventually Nazi feels like he’s about to explode from this, just the sound of the two’s breathing coupled with his heartbeat pounding in his chest, before the words spill from his lips: 

“I had sex with a woman.” 

Ancom seems a bit taken aback by that. “Who?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Did you...like it?” 

Something in Nazi’s head goes  _ snap _ . 

The tears spring to his eyes before he can hide them away. “No.” 

Ancom starts to say something, but Nazi pulls him forward by a hoodie drawstring, other hand coming up to rip off that damned bandana again and silencing the leftist with his lips. 

“I hate you,” he mutters, shaking hands coming up to run through Ancom’s ruffled hair. “I really fucking hate you.” He feels the scornful tears fall down his cheeks as Ancom’s eyes flutter shut, the anarchist sighing into the kiss before breaking, reluctantly. 

“I didn’t  _ do  _ anything. No one has to know, Naz. I mean - no one outside of the house. I get it. I get being afraid. But you don’t have to be here. No one’s going to fucking kill you just because you want to make out with me.” He laughs, and the sound makes Nazi’s heart ache. 

“Shut up,” the fascist mumbles, pulling Ancom into another kiss. “Just shut up. Just for tonight.” 

“I’d be happy to help you figure it out,” Ancom says, before Nazi grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him down onto the bed. 

Nazi doesn’t reply. 

He lets himself fall into the comforting embrace of Ancom’s lips, the softness of his moans.

He closes his eyes and embraces oblivion.  



End file.
